Strangers Exclusively
by Selah25
Summary: This is an AU that revolves around my OC Elizabeth Grecco.  In this AU she is paired with Dr. Jack Shepard.  She has it all; but wants more.  More is Det. James Ford.  Things get quite hot and complicated.  This is for Kat.
1. I'll Be Your Doctor, I'll Be Your Cure

_AN: this is strictly AU. It revolves around my OC Elizabeth Grecco, from You Can't Con a Con and others. I have written five seasons worth with my OC. They can be found on LF. This AU focuses on the marriage of Elle and Dr. Jack Sheppard. I have also thrown a wrench into the story and he is the beloved Detective James Ford. Miles is also present for comic relief. Things gets quite sexual and complicated. Please read and review- Let me know if you like it and I will post more. Thanks! Happy Reading =]_

She used a handful of wooden clothespins to hang up her final black and white photos, sealed the caps on the developing liquids, laid all her instruments, into the soapy disinfecting solution, and wiped her hands on a worn, faded, terry cloth towel.

She had spent hours processing film; while the world went digital, Elle remained content getting up close and personal with her Erickson. She had to feel the control in her trigger finger, snapping photos at superhuman speed, capturing every iota of movement in her subjects. Her latest favorite was one she had captured of her husband. His five o'clock shadow overpowered his delicate features, making him appear his age, something only facial hair could do. He was in is late thirties, but his lean, muscular body, his strong, taut arms, chiseled chest, all were indicative of hard work, a lot of pleasure, and courtesy of their joint subscription to the local gym. His eyes, however, regardless of the black and white film, were a constant black; poignant, caring, and unsuspecting.

She took one last look at his picture as it hung on the wire to dry, in her dark room, a room he had worked hours to make just for her, so she wouldn't have to rent out a shady, hole in the wall, closet downtown. She traced his features with her forefinger, lingering on his lips, and turned to walk out of the room. She flipped off the switch to the dark room, exited, and locked the door. He was working, late, as usual. His hours were confounded, but necessary. They weren't something she desired for herself when she married him, but she knew what he was, and that was enough for her.

That was also eight years ago. Her nights now, she spent mostly alone. She missed his touch; his slender fingers, tracing her nude body, caressing her breasts, lingering on her throat, where he could feel her heartbeat, pulsing in staccato beats, never slowing down, until he entered her, loved her, erased the mindless hours spent separated. She took a shower, donned a pair of silk panties, a shade of blue like the ocean, and a camisole. She pulled down the duvet, crawled into the silk sheets, he had bought her for her birthday, and fell asleep.

He had come home, after a double shift, running on caffeine, his libido in overdrive. He showered, slipped into the silk sheets; his forever tanned and nude body moist from the shower, spooned into her, letting her know that he was home. She instantly felt him enlarge against her hip, her pulse quickened, and she reached for his strong hand. She guided it up and over her body, leading his fingers to her panties, parting her legs slightly, there, she awaited his touch. He worked her slowly, tapping and rubbing her, while his free hand would massage her neck, then circle her breasts, playfully, until she arched away from him, aroused, awakened, and roll towards him, her nipples alert, piercing through her sheer camisole; like twin peaks, calling him home. He was always careful with her, undressing her slowly, memorizing her from the dip in her hips, to the beauty mark that nestled itself beneath her right breast. Their bodies, both moist and hot, folded into one another, her legs, entwined themselves with his, her nails scratched slightly down his bare back, where she would take hold of his muscular buttocks, pulling him towards her, their lower halves, melding into one. His hand grabbed her thigh, lifting her slender, yet well-developed, leg around his waist, so he could fill her with his manhood. He thrusted into her, and she rocked with him, her nails digging into his shoulders, their mouths searching for one another's. They met, with ferocity, his tongue teasing her, her teeth playfully tugging at his lower lip while she moaned in ecstasy, his name leaving her mouth in raspy breaths; a sound that would get him off every time, a sound he knew, and cherished, as she climaxed. It was his name and she was his. He could feel her coming close, her body flowing over him with desire, as his warmth erupted in her, releasing them both into submission; she cried out his name.

"Jack."

"Hey," he breathed into her mouth, a smile curling on his lips, he kissed her mouth twice, her breathing slowed, and she leaned her head back on the pillow, and smiled at him.

"Hey, yourself," she still had her hands on his shoulders, but now she was rubbing them up and down his back, landing on his sides. She playfully pinched him in what she called his no flub, love handles, and felt him stir against her, again.

"You know what that does to me," his eyebrows arched and she bit her lower lip, nodding,

"Oh, I know," she pinched his flesh again, and watched as he arched his head back, closing his eyes, stifling a moan.

"Calling Dr. Sheppard," she teased, her leg, bent at a forty-five degree angle, resting against his hip.

"Doctor…Jack…Sheppard," she said his name slowly, raising the other leg up, straddling it across his back, "it appears we have an emergency."

Jack opened his eyes, their dominance returned, and he buried his face in her ample breasts, taking them into his mouth, sucking on her flesh. He began to trail his tongue between her bronze medallions, slowly flitting his tongue across her bare stomach, where he stopped at her belly button, his hands on her hips, slowly parting her legs, where she graciously opened into him, her fingers wound tightly in his hair, pushing his head lower, until she could feel his lips on her. She moaned in response and murmured,

"Emergency rerouted," she twisted her legs around his lean, back, and flipped him onto his back, inverting their positions. Her long, wavy, chocolate hair, with natural amber reflections, fell about her face. He ran his hands up from her form fitted bare bottom, to her waist, rocking her atop him, where he fit like a well-worn suede glove. He warmed her from the inside out, chill bumps formed on her arms, where he rubbed them away. She laid atop of him, her breasts nestling amidst his dark chest of hair, she placed one hand on his chest, playing with his nipple, while the other one, raked its fingers through his cropped, but wavy, hair.

"I've missed you," she kissed his chest, while Jack stroked her bare back, traipsing his fingers up and down, slowly, raising the bumps on her skin, again.

"If you couldn't tell," Jack kissed her atop her head, "I've missed you as well."

"Oh, is that what that was," she laughed into his stomach as he inched her into his arms, so he could spoon her from behind. Jack rested a hand over her breasts, which she took into her own, and traced his fingers.

"Long day?" she asked. She could feel him nod into her, a silent yes.

"Did you lose anyone?" she asked and felt his grip tense.

"She was only sixteen," Jack sighed, "cheerleading accident."

Elle kissed his hands and turned over, facing him. She touched the tip of her nose to his, and tenderly kissed his slender lips.

"You did everything you could," she reminded him and he kissed her back, his tongue recognizing the taste of strawberries.

"I did," he pulled her close, where she rested her head into the crook of his arm, which he held over his head, while he stared at the ceiling.

"I love you," he whispered, he could feel her breath on his skin, labored. He looked down at her, asleep in his arms, and thought to himself, _I don't know what I'd do without you here._


	2. He's a Cowboy Cassanova

James had had a long day. After a pulse-ridden speed chase through downtown L.A., he had apprehended the thief, after ramming his patrol car into the back of the coupe. The barely legal, man, exited, holding his head in a stupor, and cursed,

"What gives, man," he held his head in his hands and Detective James Ford brandished his weapon,

"Hands up, Jughead," the southern drawl escaped his lips and the perpetrator did as he was told.

"My mom's going to kill me," he looked downtrodden at the backend of the car; it looked as if it was a tuna can, inside out.

"With every deserved right," Ford cuffed the boy, nodded to his partner, Straume, and winked,

"Book 'em Danno."

"Yeah, that never gets old, Ford." Miles snickered as he placed their perp into the backseat of the patrol car. James scribbled into his notepad the details of the chase, the incident, and then called in a tow truck to have the car impounded. It appears that the man, had stolen the car from his parents, knocked over a few convenient stores, and fled the scene, driving down a one way through Los Angeles. Ford and his partner, Detective Miles Straume just happened to be nearby, following up on a few tips from their recent case.

It was nearing five o'clock and all James wanted was to grab a beer, or two, head back to his spacious, yet, minimalistically furnished bachelor pad, and relax. Miles, however had other plans, and that included a night out on the town, throwing a few back, at a local pub. Barely having to twist his arm, Ford caved in and got into his car, followed Miles to the bar, and exited. He was wearing dark denim, leather boots, and a pale blue button down, with his faded leather jacket. James removed his shades, the setting of the California sun, was nearing effect, and whistled,

"Ladies' Night," he pointed to the banner that swayed in the warm, breeze.

"They say you should stick to your gut," James turned on his heel and headed towards his car, "I knew this was a set up," he pointed a figurative gun towards his partner, who was feigning shock, and pulled the trigger, "you're a damn fool, Straume."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miles shrugged, "but when was the last time you got any, Ford?"

James' eyes narrowed; Miles had hit a sore spot. Ford growled,

"Last week with your sister," he winked and clicked the unlock button on his keychain, the car beeping in response.

"Really, Ford, that's all you got?" Miles laughed and pulled the keys from his partner's hand, locked his car back up, and pocketed them.

"Maybe after you down a few, your comebacks will have some bite to them." He patted James' back and Ford grumbled,

"I'll give you somethin' that bites, Enos," he chuckled but stopped as a woman caught his eye. She was wearing an emerald green silk top, with a v split that supported and revealed her tawny cleavage. Her form fitting jeans were met with a pair of black leather pumps, her slender fingers wrapped casually around a clutch. He followed the curve of her hips to the dip in her neck, and stopped short, as the woman laughed. Her dark eyes lit up like black diamonds, her wavy hair, was caught in the breeze. She was laughing at something the woman to her left with blonde hair was saying. As she continued to laugh, Ford smiled to himself.

She was the most beautiful woman he had laid eyes on; and he had laid eyes, hands, and lips, on quite a few. He knew he had to have her, hold her, move inside her, and his pulse quickened as he watched the duo enter the bar. He hadn't felt like this ever; women were just that to him; a species to have fun with, get his hands on, but this one, she had left him speechless. A feat no other woman had accomplished. It was then he knew she was the one for him. As if some cosmic pull had turned her eyes from her friend, her eyes met his. Her eyes smiled, but her lips seemed to pull tightly together, as if they knew they would give her instant attraction to a stranger away. She casually let her head tilt to the side, almost a silent hello, and subconsciously bit her lower lip. They glance took only seconds but it felt like a James spent a lifetime in her eyes.

Miles hit him in the shoulder and snapped his fingers,

"Earth to Ford," he snapped again, "Earth to Ford."

"Miles," James' lips curled into a sly smile, "tonight just may be the night."

"The night, huh," Miles raised an eyebrow in question, "what night exactly?"

"The night I meet the woman I'ma marry."

Miles let out such a guffaw that when he looked at the smile on James' face, he had to stifle. His partner was serious. He turned his gaze towards the bar and noticed a glimpse of two women passing into the bar, the wooden doors, closing behind them. James patted Miles' shoulder and pushed him towards the door,

"You up for being my wing man," he winked.

"Dude if it gets you laid and less cantankerous, I'll be whatever you want."

"So now I'm cantankerous," James shook his head, he couldn't believe his ears. Then again, Miles never led him astray; so if the guy was saying he was less than sociable, than perhaps he was.

He slid his glasses into the opening in his shirt, removed his jacket, and walked towards the bar to order their drinks. Being a detective provided him with the ability to scour a room within seconds, noting the exits, the patrons, the ratio of men to women, and so on. He spotted her sitting at a high top table, with the other woman, her long legs were crossed under the wooden table, one heel hooked to the barstool's rungs. She was talking animatedly; her hands were moving as fast as she was speaking. She round a loose curl around her finger, absentmindedly, and hooked it behind her ear. It fell free the moment she let it unfurl from her slender finger. A finger he noticed, that was free of jewelry. He took that as a positive sign, ordered two beers, and seconds for the women. The bartender, fell to his southern charm, and inadvertently told him that the brunette was drinking a vodka on the rocks, and the blonde was nursing a Midori sour. She also slipped his her number on one of the napkins. He smiled, thanked her, and casually slipped the napkin into his back pocket.

If he couldn't pick up the brunette, the skinny bartender, with the tongue ring would be fine for a night. Just because he imagined spending his future life with a woman he only laid eyes on for a brief moment, he knew things never went as smoothly for him with the ladies as he led Miles and others to believe. The bartender had a body that screamed _bend me_ and James had a love for a woman with long, legs.

He handed Miles the electric green Midori sour and instantly Miles knew Ford has his eyes and nether region set for the brunette. He had to admit, she was extremely attractive, but the blonde, her eyes screamed a vibrant blue and Miles was okay with being the wing man. With these odds, neither would be going home alone. Each man sauntered up to the ladies' table and placed the drinks atop the small, round, table. The women instantly stopped mid chatter and looked at the men; they each eyed the men, trying hard not to do the typical eye scan, from shoes to eyes, but Elle couldn't help herself. The man was gorgeous. His eyes screamed from behind their glass green irises, yet his smile cooled her to the core.

"Ladies," he pulled two barstools from surrounding tables, maneuvered them with ease, swung his jacket on a hook, just above Elle, and let his arm linger a moment, casually brushing his fingers down her bare arm. He felt her respond, instantaneously, small, bumps, rose on her skin, a light blush flowed to her cheeks.

"Smooth," Elle regained her composure, and slid her stool away from James. He felt a knot in his stomach, but it unraveled as she motioned for him to pull his stool in closer.

"Elle," she introduced herself and her manicured nails, taking his hand into her own. He smiled, revealing a perfect set of white pearly teeth, which somehow shone thanks to his bronzed skin.

"Ford," he let his name linger, before adding, "James Ford."

Elle couldn't help but laugh. He was charming, she'd give him that, and he was insanely attractive, like a cowboy straight out of a harlequin novel, his jaw length hair, swung carefree, as he cocked his head to the side, and smiled, his hand outstretched, gripping her gently yet intensely. She immediately felt sorry, she didn't mean to offend him, but he literally said his name as if he was auditioning to be Daniel Craig's stand in; the latest Bond.

"Tell me you like your drinks shaken not stirred," she winked and he chuckled. Miles too laughed and swatted his partner's back for emphasis.

"He likes to think he is, but we're just your average Joes, who just happen to carry a badge."

The blonde spoke, intrigued, and turned towards Miles,

"You're a cop?"

"Detectives," Miles grinned and flashed his badge. James shooed him with his hand,

"What Miles is saying is that yes, we're police officials, but not tonight."

"Tonight we're just civilians, like you, Elle, and Blondie here."

"The name's Lily," the blonde rolled her eyes, "if you must call me anything, call me that."

"My apologies, Lily," James offered his hand, which she shook.

Miles and Lily began to chat amongst themselves, leaving Elle and James secluded to do the same. She was pleasant enough to talk to, he found, which made things easier for him. The last thing he wanted was a fine looking woman who only talked about her teacup poodle and the latest Hollywood couple. He found out she was a freelance photographer, who spent countless hours, taking pictures for the local newspaper. They talked and flirted for hours. He felt the need to be closer to her and when she didn't move her stool away, he took that as a sign. He let his hand land casually on her thigh, as he spoke, and she found herself welcoming the strong fingers, that exuded such a fire, upon her skin. He didn't reveal much about himself, she would later mull over, but at that moment, he was the illustrious stranger, girls were warned of when they were toddlers. Would she say no to this man's candy? She let her fingers drape across his arm, tapping his muscular forearm, and when he slowly traced his hand upward on her leg, she closed her eyes for a second, her lips parted, and a slow sigh exhaled.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, "but I have to go," she looked towards Lily and tried to get her attention. However, her sister was engaged in a bit of mouth to mouth, leaving Elle stranded in the moment.

"Was it something I said," he held up his hands, offering his forgiveness. She bit her lower lip and shook her head. She avoided his eyes; it pained her to look into them. She fought internally with herself. She was here for Lily. She was supposed to be her sister's wing woman, but instead she found herself shamefully flirting with this man. This man whose eyes searched her soul, whose hands, strong, yet callused, seemed to be reaching deeper into her soul, trying to unfold the curtains of her mind. She fidgeted with her clutch and rummaged around in it, until she pulled out something circular and shiny. She slipped it onto the left ring finger and found it hard to look him in the eyes.

Why did she feel so guilty, telling this stranger, that she was married? Why didn't she feel guilty flirting with a man that was not Jack? Regardless of the answers, neither she felt comfortable with, she pushed her stool backward, knocking into the table behind her. She apologized to the young couple, stopped to look at James, who had stood up, as any gentleman would, and placed her right hand on his shoulder. She let her jeweled hand hang like deadweight at her side.

"I'm sorry," she bit on her lip, "I never should have let things go this far." She pleaded with her eyes, for him to just let her go, but he captivated her. His coke bottle green eyes rounded with desire, dilating as he made a move towards her. His unexpected touch was all he needed to cause her knees to slightly buckle.

"Elle," he reached for her hand, and held onto it, squeezed her fingers, until both his and her hand were melded into one. She gasped at the electrical buzz that zapped through her skin and into her chest. Only Jack, she reminded herself, only he made her feel so alive in just one touch. Who was this man, this stranger, with the disarming smile, to make her feel this way; Jack's way?

"James, I have to get home."

"To your husband," he gritted his teeth and when she nodded, he sighed, and pulled her closer to him. He reached up for her face and cupped her cheek in his hand, strumming his thumb in a semi circle, resting her head onto his shoulder. There was this solid connection, not only in the sensational touch of her hand, the glint in her eyes when she laughed, but the emotional connection; it was too much for him. It was as if he had the first taste, in this sense, a touch of pure unadulterated drugs, like acid, she left his heart fluttering and his body aching.

"Come home with me," his warm, sweet, breath laced over her ear and he let his lips gently connect to her neck. To anyone on the outside, it would have appeared he had told her a secret. To Elle, it was as if he had offered her the world. She retracted from both his physical hold over her and the emotional one that appeared out of nowhere and hesitated.

"Goodbye James." Her lips spoke the words but her body language, her eyes, voiced the opposite.

Then she turned from him, walked towards the exit, pushed open the door, breathed in the balmy air, and felt for the wall of the building to support herself. She couldn't catch her breath as she walked towards the alley, slid her back against the cool stone wall, and slid to the ground.

James stood alone in the bar and despite the fact she had walked away, he knew one thing was certain; she had hesitated. A slow grin began to curl upon his lips.

She hesitated.


	3. Smile for the Camera

Chapter 3 "Smile for the Camera; Put a show on for those back home"

Elle hailed a taxi, gave the cab driver her address, and chastised herself for leaving Lily like that; but what was she to do? She let her head hit the back of the worn leather seat and closed her eyes. She inhaled, held her breath, until she couldn't hold it any longer, and let the air escape her lungs.

His face was all she could see when she closed her eyes. She opened them wide and caught the cabby eyeing her strangely from the rearview. He spoke in a thick accent,

"Every 'ting alright, Miss?"

"Damn near perfect," she mumbled and rolled down the window. She stared out the window, catching in the familiar sites, letting her mind drift back to the bar occasionally, but detouring it straight back to the life she was heading back to. It was nearing 8 o'clock and Jack should be home by now. Her mind had created a split screen; Jack, smiling in his scrubs to the right, while the detective, wearing nothing but a badge that hung from a chain around his neck, smiled that sly smile of his, to the left of her husband. She shook her head as if she could erase the images like in an Etch A Sketch. Unfortunately, his image was still fresh in her mind.

"Here it 'tis," the cabby stopped his taxi at the top of her driveway, near the front steps. She glanced at the meter, handed him a crisp ten dollar bill, and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and drove off, turning his light off, and continued down the horseshoe shaped drive. She walked up the four steps to the front door, inserted her key, and pushed open the door. She was instantly hit with the succulent scents of garlic and tomatoes, and knew he had prepared his famous sauce. She slipped off her heels and left them by the front door. She tossed her keys into the antique bowl on the stand in the hallway, searched the mirror for any tell tale signs of infidelity, pulled the skin beneath her eyes, with both index fingers, and tossed a hand into her hair. She walked slowly towards the kitchen and called out his name, indicating her arrival home.

"Something smells delicious," she turned the corner, stood in the entrance of the kitchen and noticed she was alone. She walked towards the pot on the stove, lifted the cover, and stirred the sauce with a wooden spoon. She lifted it towards her lips, took a taste, and moaned in delight.

"Jack?" she called out noticing how eerily silent it was in the house, "Jack?"

She walked towards the dining room, caught her breath, at the sight of a table set for two; a vase of orchids in the center, candles burning low, and a piece of paper placed in her plate. She picked it up, letting it fall limp in her hands, as she read the note in his doctor's script.

Emergency at the hospital. Don't wait up.

Forgive me?

J.

She crumpled the paper into a ball in her hand and grit her teeth. She was angry at him; she knew it wasn't his fault that there was an emergency at the hospital. It was his job, his duty, to fix, to heal. She was angry because she needed him to be there; it was her selfish reasoning for not walking out that front door. She had left the bar, with the selfish desire that he would be her anchor; he would keep her tethered to the house, safe from her feral desire to be touched, held, by a stranger. She laughed at herself; who was she kidding? She held her hair back, while she blew out the candles, picked up the plates, and glasses, walked back to the kitchen and tidied up. She set his sauce in a container, stored the box of capellini back in the pantry, and uncorked the wine, poured herself a glass, and walked upstairs to the bedroom.

She walked to the window seat, sat against the designer pillows, brought her knees to her chest and the wine to her lips. She drank the glass in one sip, letting the earthy warmth, with fruity undertones, glide down her throat to the pit of her stomach. She reached to the wooden floor, lifted the wine bottle, refilled her glass, and stared out the window. She could see all of down town Los Angeles from this room. She watched as the lights from cars on the strip flitted like fireflies. After she polished off the second glass, she walked to the vanity and stripped out of her clothes. She let them fall to a heap on the Persian white carpet, gracefully picked up her silk blouse, with her elegant toes, raised her leg to her hand, and turned to toss the blouse into the hamper, to take to the dry cleaners. She bent to retrieve her jeans and searched the pockets as she normally did, before tossing them into the hamper too. Her fingers grasped onto something, rectangular, yet small, and as she pulled it from her back pocket, she froze.

It was James' business card. He must have slipped it into her pocket when he reached for her, drawing her close to his body. She read the neat, block, font, and turned it over in her hand. He had scribbled his home address and personal phone number on the back. She brought the card to her lips, tapped it twice, and as she weighed the possibilities, she caught the scent of him, momentarily. It was an absolute contradiction to what she was drawn to; it reminded her of menthol cigarettes and a hint of something exotic, that she couldn't pinpoint. She was tempted to pick up the phone and call him. She caught her face in the mirror and held a finger up to herself, shaking it back and forth.

"You know better," she warned herself, but the person staring back at her, smiled, almost fleetingly. The voice inside of her replied,

"Do I?"

Great, she thought to herself, now I'm arguing with myself. She poured herself another glass of wine, walked to her closet, and began to organize it. Ever since she was young, she would remember organizing things, from books, to her closets and drawers, rearranging her bedroom, to keep her mind off things that bothered her. Tonight it was the aching, gnawing feeling, of the detective. After about an hour of reorganizing, she drew a bath, let the water run tepid, and toweled herself dry. It was nearing eleven and Jack hadn't returned. The little voice in her head piped up and whined,

"He said he wasn't going to," she tried to silence it, but it kept growing stronger, "he's never home, Elizabeth, you'd think we'd be used to that by now."

"I'll never be used to it," she grumbled, rummaged through her closet for something to wear, and decided on a pair of worn jeans, ones she wore when Jack wasn't around. He didn't approve of them; they made her look messy; he liked her to be put together, elegant. Some days, no, most days, she felt as if she was living in someone else's skin. They had rips in the knees, the seams on the cuffs were untangled, but they fit her like a glove. She pulled on a baby blue tank top, pulled her waves into a messy bun, and walked down the stairs. She went into the hall closet, pulled out her messenger bag, the one she used on photo shoots, slung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her car keys. She would later like to claim that she hadn't known what she was doing; but that was the first lie. She knew damn well, that what she was doing was wrong, but as she locked up the house, she got into the driver's seat of her Passat, and drove downtown. She hadn't felt more alive.

Elle parked on the street, beneath the shadows of a tree, and walked towards the small house. She debated on calling, but in the heat of the moment, she opted for showing up on his doorstep. She had gone there because she was lonely; she had gone because she was curious.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she warned herself, rang the doorbell, and waited in the silence of the night. She could hear him shuffling towards the door, heard the slide of the peephole, scrape across the wooden door. She could have sworn she heard him gasp, but then the door opened, the hallway light glowed around him. He was wearing the same jeans from the bar, and the once buttoned down shirt, was now opened, showing off a chest that was sparse with golden hair.

"Well, I'll be," he held the door open wider and waved a hand towards the hall, ushering her in.

What was the rest of that saying, she mulled over, glancing at the bareness on his walls, the leather couch and recliner, the flat screen television, that was on, but muted. She noticed a few beer bottles on the table, the magazines he had used as a coaster. She heard the door close behind them and the twist of the lock as he turned it into place. She turned to face him, caught a lopsided smile that graced his lips, and felt her heart stop as he walked barefoot towards her, cupped her face in his hands, and pulled her mouth towards his.

"Satisfaction brought it back," the voice inside her finished her thoughts. That it did, she could feel herself smile into his mouth, which he returned, a slow grin, as he tugged on her lip.

It was an intensity she had longed forgotten; the warmth of his breath, the roll of his tongue across her teeth; she had forgotten to breathe as she pressed her body closer to his, wrapped her fingers through his hair, and felt him twinge against her inner thigh. She pulled herself away, looked into his eyes, reveled in a green she had never witnessed before, and ran her hands down his chest, gripping his shirt, tugging it off his shoulders. He wrestled with the strap to her bag, and it landed with a deafening thud. They giggled like teenagers, brought themselves back to the present, and continued removing one another's clothing. James kissed and suckled on her neck as Elle used both hands to unhook his belt. She pulled it free, with one swift tug, and started with the button on his jeans. James' hands found themselves surveying her body, starting at the small of her back, coursing over towards her breasts, fumbling with the latch on her bra. She chuckled to herself, ran her hand over his, unlatched it, and let him continue. She stepped back and lifted her arms over her head, watching as his strong hands, removed her tank top, up and over her head; she glanced in its direction as it landed on the recliner. Her bra was undone and he pulled at each strap and twirled it within his fingers, tossing it over his head, with a lighthearted yelp, that sounded a bit reminiscent of a yee-haw.

He unbuttoned her jeans, slid the zipper, slowly, and he used his hips to push her towards the bedroom. She was on her tiptoes, inching backwards, her lips suctioned to his, vying for affection. She felt the back of her legs hit the foot of the bed and their teeth gnashed into one another's', causing them both to halt. James cupped her bottom with both hands, roughly hefted her up, and scooted her back against the bed. Elle's legs were wrapped around his waist, a waist that was dipping into her pelvis, rubbing heat between the layers of denim. He burrowed his face into her ribcage, flicking his tongue across her salty skin, slowly inching his mouth over her tawny baubles. Elle felt herself arching into his body, as his mouth traveled across her flesh. He kissed her neck, feverishly, sucked on her earlobe, she let him linger above her, savoring her. She reached for the back of his head and brought her lips to his, sucking on his tongue, while hers darted across the backs of his teeth. She ran her manicured nails down his spine, digging into his skin, as she urged him meet her once more with his mouth, guiding his hand towards her zipper. She felt him finger her lace, teasing her, bringing his hand back up towards her breasts, fondling one, while he kissed her bare stomach.

She let out an ethereal moan as he slowly let his tongue trace the caverns of her body, to the dip in her stomach, to the narrow space between her breasts, and finally, plundering her mouth. His arms were on either side of her and she reached upward, into the hollow pits of each one of them, she locked her fingers into his, grasped tightly, and turned him onto his back. She straddled him, teased him, allowing him to guide her across his foreign land. Not once did he take his eyes off her, watching her with pleasure as she kissed his well toned abs, as she twirled her tongue in and around his belly button. She unzipped him, coaxed his jeans off him, taking one leg at a time, and tossing them to the floor. James' boxers were crisp, and white, reminiscent of clean laundry hung out to dry. He couldn't keep his hands off her and neither could she. She kissed him once more, this time, with such fire and passion, that she literally took his breath away. All she wanted was for him to be inside of her, delve into the caverns of her mind, her body, her soul, but what she did, was kiss him once more, and slide off him, resting her head on his bare chest, letting her fingers grace his skin, tracing patterns.

"And they said foreplay was dead," he murmured into her damp hair, breathing in her natural scent, mixed with honey and pear.

"You're not disappointed," her fingers stopped their little dance on his skin as she found the right words, "that we didn't," she sighed, kissing his chest, "you know?"

"Sure, there's a small part of me that's disappointed," he chuckled, "but you surprised me once already."

Elle toyed with the elastic of his boxers and snuck a peek, letting the band snap back against his moist skin, noticing nothing about this man was diminutive.

"Liar."

"I was being modest," he reached for her to move towards him and wrapped his arms around her bare shoulder, and kissed the top of her head. She was taken back by his gentleness. It instantly reminded her of Jack and she must have cringed, because James knitted his brows together and broke her concentration,

"This goes against all you are, doesn't it," he brushed her hair away from her eyes and lifted her chin so she was eye level with him. She closed them, swallowed, and nodded.

"I shouldn't be here," she started, but he held his finger to her lips, and silenced her, by lightly tapping her full, pouty, lips.

"But you are," he raised an eyebrow, "ain't no use fightin' that."

It was as if she had known him forever, yet in this encounter, they had met for the first time, as if it were routine. How could this stranger, this beautiful man, with his dimpled smile, callused hands, golden hair, bottle green eyes, and wry wit, mean so much to her already?

"You didn't let me finish," she swatted his chest playfully and he conceded, with a nod of his head, for her to continue.

"I shouldn't be here, with you, like this," she traced the ridges of his abdomen, traipsing her fingers up and down his bare chest, "but I want to be," she hesitated, something he found unnerving and satisfying all the same, "which you're right, it isn't me."

"It hasn't been me for a long time," she rested her head on his chest, listening to the thumping of his heart. She could have sworn she heard it skip a beat, but this wasn't a fairy tale. It was adulterated, immoral, it was a part of her she thought was buried deep in the closets of her home with her husband, top shelved memories, the tainted past that she was once an uncontrollable force.

"Let's just say," he drew on the words, his southern twang licked at each syllable, "that what this is, right here, right now, is exactly where you want to be, what you want, what you need."

Elle didn't say anything and he continued.

"Am I going to refuse you, slam a door in your beautiful face, hell darlin', I ain't stupid," he chuckled to himself, "I want you, you felt that in the bar, there's no denyin' it." Still Elle said nothing, her silence was all the acknowledgement he needed, "and you wanted me too."

"Only problem is," he sighed, "what the hell are we goin' to do 'bout that?"

Elle shifted in his arms, pulled herself up, kissed his mouth with all she had, and slid off the bed, wrapping his sheet around her. He watched as she walked out of his room and listened to her bare feet hit the wooden floor that led to his living room. He strained his ear to catch what sounded like a zipper being tugged at and closed his eyes; she was leaving him. He gnashed his teeth together, balled his hands into fists, and brought them to his face, digging into the sockets of his eyes; trying to erase her image, her scent, her warmth. Then he heard it, a faint sound, as if she was tiptoeing back towards him, and he uncoiled his fingers, looked past the foot of his bed, and spotted her, sans sheet, standing in his doorway, wearing only panties. A long, leather, strap hung from around her neck, and in her hands, was a camera. She held it in one hand, the other, draped against the jamb of the door, a wicked smile ran across her lips.

"I've wanted to do this since I met you," she tilted the camera from one hand to the other, "you in or what?"

"Hell," James guffawed, flexing a dimpled smile towards her, his bare arms, flexed as well, the notion of being photographed, naked, by her was the ultimate turn on for him.

"Anyway you can work the camera so it's you _and _me?" James winked and his eyes widened as Elle pulled what looked like three rods from behind her bare body, each leg locked into place, as the tripod was set. She placed the camera on its stand and hit a few buttons. She walked slowly towards him, that wicked smile, contagious as it was, lured him into her arms, and as they wrapped their lips, arms, and legs, around one another, the camera shuttered as each frame was being taken, their moans drowning out the shutter speed, that snapped their nude bodies frame by frame.


End file.
